Click
by ETNRL4L
Summary: A few pictures in a student calendar to dredge up the cash to get their team to finals. That's all it was supposed to be. The last thing Peeta Mellark needed was to become the center of attention at his school and definitely didn't need to get there in so little. Maybe, the dark-haired girl behind the flickering lens could make the aggravation worthwhile. F4LLS Submission.
1. One's Born Every Second

You'd think by now he'd know better.

He'd grown up with this lunatic.

Why he would go along with one of his half-baked schemes… this was beyond him.

"Stop sulking. You had months to come up with better. I know you don't want to tell your guys they can't make that third trip to States. You should be thanking me for this, Captain. Were the camera not here, you'd have no qualms with any of this. Odair didn't whine like a little girl. Suck it up and lose the robe, Sugarbuns."

His eyes narrowed at his older brother, hands hesitating over the terry cloth knot at his pelvis. "That's such bull, Rye. How is it that you conveniently come up with this joke of a fundraising gimmick the year after you graduate? Why isn't it you back here taking one for the team? And Finn couldn't give less, for the record. Did you see what he posed in for that last set? Pretty sure not even dudes in Rio bust out the filo dental, man. Only thing corralling his junk was three inches of thread and creative hand placement. Man has no shame."

From behind the photographer who tapped her watch impatiently, the older teenager let out an amused scoff, muttering, "He knows what he's doing." He sobered briefly to add, "Peeta, you asked for help. This is the best I could come up with on such short notice. You and Finn are the only eighteen-year-olds on the squad. Can't do this with minors—not even with parental consent. Flax was very specific on that front. I know this will get you the funds you need to get your guys to the championships. Mr. Heavensbee will get someone on the yearbook staff to take care of the editing and he's taking care of the arrangements with a publisher to get the calendars printed. You just need to get your set in before the light out here becomes crap. Come on, man."

With a defeated slump, he pulled at the tie and squirmed so that the bathrobe slithered off. He couldn't help the glare he leveled at the lens the moment the first sequence of flickers registered. His scowl only deepened when the photographer—Fulvia he'd learned was her name from watching Finnick's shoot—sucked in a harsh breath through clenched teeth.

"Oh, dear god, yes, child. Stay pissed. The camera loves this righteous indignation thing you're pulling," she huffed heatedly. He immediately shifted uncomfortably, arms coming down to cross at his back, cerulean eyes casting toward the moist soil at his bare feet as a furious flush tinged up his neck.

The speed of the flickering increased exponentially. "Oh! That's even better! The way that vein bulges when you distend that arm. And the innocence in your expression… Priceless! I simply must have you. Are you available for some freelance work?"

Peeta let his arms fall limply at his sides, burning an outraged jeer at the woman still callously snapping shots at him—certain she'd find a way to fashion his open disdain into something _absolutely enchanting_ on film—before tracing the hatred filled glower up to his softly chuckling older sibling just over her shoulder.

The bastard had the audacity to wriggle his fingers in a wave at him.

As soon as this was over, he was finding a secluded ditch off the side of the road and dumping this psycho's body.


	2. It's Only For The Articles Honest!

Tsk. This was a bloody tragedy.

You'd think young adults would have the common sense to show up to school on picture day sober. But, no. She'd spent the last two days going through dozens… _dozens _of proofs from this year's layout, just to brighten vacuous, red-tinged eyes. And this was after Jo had done the grunge work of eliminating the tragically unsalvageable ones—the ones where the bastard was so blitzed they couldn't be bothered with opening their eyes at the flash—probably hadn't even noticed it'd gone off. If she had a dollar for every 'portrait not available' slot she'd had to post in that book…

An exasperated breath escaped her and she brought both heels of her palms to jab in her eyes. Lord knew she didn't need this. Had her college apps not needed the extra padding, she'd never have taken the extracurricular.

Final revisions on the next issue of The Feed, which had to be out on Friday, still waited on her to-do pile and she was stuck doing this inanity. The deadline wouldn't grate quite so acutely had Jo not made some stupid comment about changing her editorial on the cheerleading squad's exercise regimen to an exposé on the various eating disorders the hierarchy on the team encouraged. She was almost certain it'd been a horribly timed, sick excuse of a joke, but she still needed to get to that article before it went to press. Under normal circumstances, she'd be the first to champion her overly passionate friend's crusades against all things tyrannical within their school, but there was simply nothing left in her to deal with the backlash from Johanna's brazen irreverence.

She would let the scathing editorial slip in the last edition before graduation—when dealing with enraged student athletes, faculty coaches or helicopter parents was no longer a threat.

Not now.

She was decidedly not cut out for human interaction.

"Miss Everdeen, just the person I wanted to see! So glad you're still here."

She languished her nails down the length of her face to purse her lips at the approaching imposing man. Of course, she was still here. He was keeping her prisoner. The grocery list of crap he'd lugged on her since appointing her editor of both the paper and this joke of a yearbook could be considered child slavery—if she weren't technically an adult and getting both a gleaming recommendation and access to his personal connections in her chosen future career field in exchange.

She briefly tried to pull up a recollection of what sunlight had felt like on her skin. It tingled if memory served. Hmmm.

"You remember how you'd said you owed me for that internship at Cinna's that any kid your age would indenture themselves for twelve years to get? Remember I brushed you off, telling you that you'd make it up to me later?"

_Oh, dear lord on high, no._ She hadn't known that the tendon behind her left eye could jerk that violently. A vicious migraine was a'comin'.

"Well, your predecessor as editor and one of my all-time favorite students asked for a favor and I find myself in a position to aide."

Her head tipped at attention. Her predecessor. Ryland Mellark. Student council vice-president. Class clown. Jock. Prom king. Most likely to succeed (if he could avoid getting smashed and driving off an overhang before twenty). Barely a B average student, but had the entire school abuzz when he'd managed an athletic scholarship.

She wasn't social, stayed as far away from school related activities as possible, but Rye had made her radar from the moment she set foot in that school as a freshman. It was impossible for him not to. He was extroverted, boisterous—a born showman. Yes, she could see how that boy would be Mr. Heavensbee's favorite. They were cut from the same cloth. Attention whores.

"The wrestling team made it to the state championships again," the robust man continued conversationally, placing his oversized briefcase on his desk before her and starting to riffle through the contents.

His casual mention of this universally known tidbit brought to the forefront that _other_ reason Rye'd always been on her pseudo-aware peripheral. Association. Though, every conscious effort on her part had been made since the age of twelve to convince herself otherwise. To convince herself that everyone in her sixth grade class had been forced to make her a condolence card when she'd gotten back from her four week leave after her father's accident. It had been only her imagination that the card the blonde boy who sat two chairs behind her had made seemed so much more elaborate than everyone else's. The bag of snickerdoodles that accompanied it had to be perfunctory. His father did own a bakery chain. He'd likely made him give them to her.

All the same, she found it odd that Mr. Heavensby would bring up Rye in correlation to the wrestling team's recent accomplishments. He'd graduated. Their current success had nothing to do with him.

"You likely know Peeta's captaining the team now—you handling the club and sports photos for the book and all. The brothers have been entrusting the team to each other for the last four years. They're solid stock. And I hear Peeta's a good boy. I personally don't know him especially well outside the media coverage I oversee of the sporting events, the Junior Honors Society and the debate team. Never took any classes with me. He's not quite as comfortable in the spotlight as his older brothers were. Quite the shame. I remember Flax, his oldest brother? That kid's demeanor demanded every eye in the room focus on him and his voice alone could smelt titanium. I so wanted him to go into broadcasting. But, alas, the law is his passion." He gazed out the window beside the desk wistfully and released a sigh as he handed her a flash drive without shifting to look at her. "This is for your eyes only."

With a frown, she took the drive from his hand and quickly had the contents loading on his computer. Her eyebrows shot to her hairline when she clicked on the folder labeled 'Odair' and row after row of photos of a boy she knew only in passing and from a rather colorful reputation streamed across the screen. The teenager featured sported next to nothing in almost every shot. She cut confounded eyes up to the media arts professor, who now reclined casually against his desk, arms crossed, a keen smile etching his features.

"How do you like the work?"

Her gaze shifted back to the screen and she took a second to shake her head softly, eyes widening in an attempt to leech the initial edge of shock at the context in order to study the technique, the use of light, the minute variations in lens work from frame set to frame set.

It was good. Really good. Far beyond anything she was capable of achieving—leaps beyond anything that hack they'd hired for the yearbook had managed.

She became somewhat entranced as she passed from photo to photo, studying the intricacies of the effort put forth. The artist had obviously taken pains to cherry-pick these. They were exquisite. She didn't notice when the man moved to survey the screen from over her shoulder.

"He was born to seduce the camera."

She started at his voice, a deep flush racing up her neck, eyes darting toward her hands. Yes, the athletic boy was a paradigm… the tanned skin, the piercing seafoam eyes, that polished bronze hair. And she'd be lying if she'd said she hadn't been admiring his physique as she'd perused the frames. But, she'd been more vested in the technique of capturing such beauty, not the beauty itself. Something about that boy seemed… too idealistic. Too perfect. It was as if he was _too_ beautiful. She found herself oddly put off by the notion.

"Fulvia came to develop quite the little crush on these two. If I were less secure in my manhood, I'd be jealous."

Her head craned back to shoot him a surprised look. "Your wife did these? She'd told me she only wanted to focus on landscapes… "

He grinned beguilingly with an upturn to his brow. "I have my ways, Miss Everdeen. And, this did involve some landscape photography to a degree. Rye knew an enrapturing little hideaway by the lakeshore for the scenery shots. Apparently a favorite date spot of his. I assure you, a revisit to the venue with Mrs. Cardew is part of the bargain for the photographs. I volunteered my home studio for the rest."

She returned to surveying the slides, asking dumbly, "What am I supposed to be looking for here, exactly?"

"You're choosing the shots for a pin-up calendar."

Her head snapped up from the screen, stiffening ramrod in her chair. "What?"

"Why do you think I chose you as editor, Miss Everdeen? You had no experience. You have nothing but disdain for working with others. You barely uttered three words in my media arts class last year. You have no on-screen personality to speak of. Why would I choose you out of dozens of plausible candidates when Rye left?"

When she shrugged and wrinkled her nose in response, he answered his own question. "You have an innate talent for finding the nature, the unblemished essence, of context in media—be it in print or on film. You flesh things out, find hidden truths within lies. It's a talent that takes many a lifetime to achieve and you're a prodigy. I wasn't going to give up the opportunity to work with you just because that gift of yours is swathed in your standoffish personality. I've been working with artists, media personnel and teenagers the entirety of my life. I can certainly handle a pissy young girl."

Lines creasing her demeanor severely, she spit with unmitigated spite, "Is it even legal for the school to get involved in this? Pretty sure the parents will be pissed when they find out teachers are peddling a calendar with boys in bathing suits to students."

"The school has no involvement in this, whatsoever," he countered, leveling an equally icy glare. "Flax is writing up a hold harmless agreement for both District Twelve High and the faculty affected as we speak, with the aid of his professors at Ann Arbor and his uncle. District Attorney Abernathy opened an LLC for his youngest nephew to publish the calendar under. He has advised us that we are to make it clear that this is the sole enterprise of these two students and the entirety of my involvement is that of teacher consultant. There is no reason their final project for Coach Dalton's Economics class can't be a calendar. They are both adults and can raise funds for their squad as they see fit. The school will not distribute the calendar, nor will the school profit from its sales. The kids on the wrestling squad will take care of that on their own time. Mr. Mellark the senior is paying for the printing costs. Everything else is volunteer work and time—off school premises."

"_I'm_ not volunteering."

She set defiant eyes on him, arms adamantly crossed over her chest, before using one hand to gesture expansively at the room they inhabited. "And, in case you hadn't noticed, we're still on school premises."

The corner of one of his pale blue eyes twitched slightly a split second before a sly grin found its way on his face. "True, Miss Everdeen," he relented with a sigh, pulling the drive out of his computer, which in turn caused hereyes to narrow suspiciously at the screen saver that replaced the photos. "But, for you, participation means credit for the final product. How do you believe an admissions board would perceive an applicant who has already edited a successful publication coming in?"

Her jaw slackened, her eyes rounding and enlarging exponentially. The bastard was extorting her.

She had half a mind to walk right out of that room and down to the Principal's office, tell him exactly… What? That the media arts teacher had offered her the opportunity of her dreams in exchange for helping him? For helping out a couple of students? Helping out some kids on some stupid team? Oh, and had she mentioned the half dozen other favors she still owed the man for? No. That didn't sound right. She couldn't possibly be that trifling. Could she?

She took a moment to assess exactly why she was growing increasingly pissed before jabbing an open palm at him.

"What do you need me to do?" she snarled.

He did nothing to suppress his triumphant smile as he handed the drive back to her, leaning over her shoulder to explain, "Haymitch really doesn't want us doing anything in this building. And time's a commodity. I need everything done by week's end. The boys are at practice right now, but they should be out in half an hour. I need you to graze the photos and pick six for each—one of both together in the wrestling uniforms for the cover. Edit out the school name and coat of arms from the gear. Remember, _we_ are not selling these calendars, _they_ are. Then, work up the layout for the calendar. The boys are coming in to interview with you."

This caused her to look up at him again, brows pinched.

"It's a teen calendar, Katniss," he elaborated with a huff. "We need to work in some facts about the boys into each month… like a dialogue box inset in a corner or something. Come up with questions to ask them. You know, the kind of asinine questions bubblegum magazines ask celebrities that make tweens gush."

Her lips stretched into a tight line.

"I don't read that crap."

A clipped laugh escaped the large man. "Yes, I didn't figure you for the sort that would."

He dug into his briefcase again and pulled out three magazines. Katniss cringed at the titles: TeenSwoon, Trendz, CapQ. She leafed open one of the publications with the very tips of her thumb and index fingers as if the contact would taint her irrevocably. She sneered upon reading: 'What flavor lip gloss is his fave for you?' and looked up at the educator stricken.

One would think he'd have the decency to attempt to hide that obscenely self-satisfied smirk.

He did not.

"We must all suffer for our art, Miss Everdeen."


	3. TMI

They were punctual. At least she could say that much for them.

It was almost four on the dot when she heard the knock at the door that snapped her out of an electric blue eye induced trance. For some unfathomable reason, she flinched at the sound, scrambling the mouse over the pad to shut the folder of frames she'd been staring at for the past five minutes. Then, feeling ridiculous, she quickly clicked it open again, clearing her dry throat to call for whoever was at the door at the far end of the classroom—she knew exactly who it was on the other side—to come in.

Why was she hiding what she'd been staring at? She'd been tasked to stare. It was her job to pick out the photos for the layout. She was doing as she'd been charged. And she was going to adamantly ignore that giggling little jit in the back of her mind bent on pointing out that she'd chosen those photos for said layout a solid twenty minutes ago and the particular set she'd been eyeing was part of the 'discard' pile.

And pathetically lacking in diversity. As in… there was only one guy represented. And his eyes were decidedly not green.

"We're sorry we kept you so late. Practices run longer the closer we get to the championships."

She looked up to find a very large hand extended to her. She traced the length of the arm to confront the same face she'd been staring at seemingly endlessly, though the live version was etched by a lopsided, almost bashful grin that completely changed the dynamics of the countenance. He hadn't smiled in any of the photos she'd seen. His stare had been intense, commanding, choleric… captivating. Her mind was having trouble reconciling this soft mien with that domineering cast on the screen. Even if she'd gone to enough of his matches over the years to know he was capable of that level of intensity, experiencing the juxtaposition this immediately was jarring.

She hadn't realized how long she'd hesitated in her scrutiny until his hand pulled back to rake somewhat anxiously through his semi-dry hair. It occurred to her a split second too late she'd just effectively blown him off.

She was about to excuse herself, tell him it was fine, that she'd been waiting for him… them… _them_… maybe extend her own hand in greeting to make him feel less jilted at her snub, when the door flew open again.

"Thanks for ditching me, Mellark," the now familiar tall, athletic, redhead arraigned as he sauntered over to the desk, pulling a deep plum team logo shirt over his naked torso as he progressed. "There's two of us doing this."

"Heavensbee said to be here at four, Finn. You weren't even in the showers yet at quarter till."

"You pricks used up all the hot water. I refuse to take a cold shower. This can wait five freaking minutes."

Katniss placed her elbows on the table, intertwined her fingers and allowed her chin to rest on top. She cleared her throat roughly to gain their attention. "I'm sure we all have somewhere else to be, people."

The shorter boy mumbled an apology, quickly scrambling to find chairs to pull up closer to the desk for him and his friend, while the green-eyed teenager allowed his gaze to roam over her slowly. He reached out a hand. "Hello, I don't believe we've ever had the pleasure. Finnick Odair."

She eyed his hand skeptically, not particularly comfortable with the open way he'd checked her out or his unabashedly flirtatious smile. In the end, not wanting to appear any more hostile to the now returning blonde with the chairs (as to why, she had absolutely no wish to explore the depths of her psyche to discern), she settled on handing him her hand in a firm shake. When he stretched her arm forward to bring the back of her hand to his lips, she instinctively wrenched it away with a sneer. There were limits to how far she'd go for the sake of manners and this boy seemed hell-bent on testing all of them.

The beautiful teen slumped down with a sly gleam to his eyes, unperturbed by the daggers she continued piercing through him with hers. "Chill, honey, it was just a greeting. Many a girl would kill to be your hand right now."

She fought hard not to roll her eyes. "I don't doubt that, Finnick Odair. But I'm not many girls. Let's get this done so we can all get out of here, okay?"

She let out a sigh and stared down at the screen a moment to pull up the photos she'd selected for the calendar, the gesture causing her to miss the threatening look the shorter boy sent his friend as he situated himself beside him.

When she had the correct photos pulled up according to month, she swerved the screen around so they could see them. "These are the shots for the calendar. There were a lot more, but Mrs. Cardew suggested some of these and the rest are the best from each set. I tried to use ones where you weren't grinning from ear to ear," she directed at the redhead, "because _he_ didn't smile once in any of his," she gestured with an upturned brow at Peeta. "The disparity made it look really weird. Like one of you was delirious to be there and the other one couldn't wait to make a run for it. I had to find a balance."

"Peeta has body issues," Finnick suddenly blurted, causing the blonde beside him to chortle and run his hand through his hair again. It made Katniss muse whether the gesture might be some sort of calming mannerism. It also made her wonder if his hair felt half as soft as it looked. "Why aren't any of my thong pictures showcased? I want to place a formal complaint with the editor."

This time, Katniss didn't fight the eye roll when she swerved the screen back to face her. "I'm pretty sure not even that fancy lawyer of yours could get you out of a lawsuit for exposing yourself to a bunch of kids, weirdo."

Finnick's riposte was immediate, his words thick with affront. "Hey! Those poses were artful and very tasteful. And I dutifully and strategically maneuvered my hand to cover any indecency."

She pursed her lips to send him a duly unimpressed glare. "Yeah? Well, your fingers slipped, Adonis… _a whole lot_. And guess who had to dig through frame after frame of grossly negligent wardrobe malfunctions that Mrs. Cardew is either too old to notice or too into the artistry of her own work to care about? And, by the way, Brazilian waxing? Really? Eeeew?"

Peeta was laughing so hard into a hand by statement's end; he'd doubled over in his chair, ears staining a deep crimson. Finnick kicked him hard in the shin. "It's for swimming, ass. And I swear if you breathe a word of it to any of the guys on the team…"

"God, Finn, stop. I can't, man," Peeta gasped, waving a hand at his friend through his bouts of laughter. "I need air. I'd seen the slips. I just never thought Fulvia'd keep them in the shots. That chick's warped."

"She's not warped," Katniss felt the need to defend, instantly feeling raw about how harshly her voice had rung when the boys turned widened eyes toward her. She cleared her throat and added sheepishly, "She's brilliant—innovative, really—just getting on in age a little. That's why she's mostly retired. You guys should be infinitely grateful to Mr. Heavensbee for getting someone like her to do this for you. She taught some of the best young photographers in the industry today. I'd kill to be half as talented as she is."

Peeta sat up in his chair, looking contrite. "I'm sorry. We really had no idea. To us, she was just some creepy old lady who kept ogling us and asking us to do some really bizarre stuff." He figured her noncommittal shrug was an acceptance of his apology, seeing as she avoided her eyes to the screen, focused on keying something into the computer, so he ventured a follow up question in a tentative tone. "So, you're a photographer? That's cool. I draw."

"Oh, I know. I looked up your DeviantArt page. Your stuff's amazing," she commented distractedly, then realized just how stalkerish what she'd just admitted to could be construed and looked up with slightly frantic eyes, amending quickly, "For the interview! You know, because Mr. Heavensbee asked me to find out things about you guys for the calendar."

Finnick shifted in his chair, bringing one leg up to rest across the opposite knee. He rested his folded hands neatly there. The smile on his face grew one-sided and knowing, a mischievous glint lighting the foam of his eyes. "Pray tell, what did you sleuth about me, Inspector?"

_Oh, damn it to Hell!_

She was certain her brows skimmed her hairline as she swerved her rounded gaze in the direction of the depravedly smirking copper-haired boy, wracking the archives of her mind for an answer. Because certainly there was a completely logical explanation for why she'd spent the entirety of the time allotted her prior to this meeting Googling Peeta Mellark. There was a reason it'd completely slipped her mind there were two distinct people in those photos she'd reviewed.

Christ, there had to be.

"You?" she mumbled weakly, stalling, trying to remember something, anything, she knew about this boy. They were all seniors. He was on the wrestling team…

"Yes, me, darling…"

Girls always spoke in hushed tones around him. He was a shameless flirt. But there was something. Something pinched at the back of her mind… Something snarky Jo once aimed at one of those gaggles of girls gawking at him as he was heading toward a lonely looking cheerleader under a tree when they'd been on their way to meet Madge for lunch…

"There are two of us here, in case you for-"

"You have a girlfriend."

Even she startled at the whiny, half-questioning, half-accusing quality to her inflection. Finnick seemed taken aback for a moment. Peeta crossed his arms and quirked an impressed brow at her before turning a challenging look at his friend.

"Tha-that's not technically true..." the redhead floundered, eyeing her suspiciously. She breathed an inward thank you to Johanna Mason for being such an unrepentant gossip.

"But, it's not technically a lie, is it?" she pried, growing both bold and curious as to why this peacock of a boy would keep this special girl in his life so under wraps.

"Oh, Annie would probably tell you it's a lie, outright," he rebutted with a humorless laugh.

Something in the vulnerability that flitted through his eyes for an nth of a moment made her sit back in her chair, that familiar scowl creasing her forehead. Something tightened in the pit of her stomach for this boy and she had no idea why. It made her feel strangely protective of him. Which was absurd. She'd barely just met him. And what little she'd learned of him so far made her skin crawl. Yet, that look had still managed to trigger that instinct in her…

"Why?" she inquired softly.

"Is this line of questioning part of my official interview?"

He'd lazed his tone with saccharine bravado, but his smirk no longer reached his eyes. Still, she humored him. "We're targeting this crap to your adoring public, Odair. I _was_ supposed to ask if you are dating anyone. 'How to catch the eye of your favorite hottie' seems to be the hot topic at the moment." She held up one of the ridiculous tween magazines on the desk for emphasis.

Finnick's smile turned genuine. "I'm not dating anyone at this time, thank you for asking." Then he pointed a thumb at the blonde beside him and added, "Neither is he, by the way. He's pickier about his women than he is about those last five pounds on his thighs."

Peeta chuckled again and brought a hand up to rub the bridge of his nose.

Katniss bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. "Okay. Let's assume I believe that and move on to the next question. What kind of girl do you like?"

She didn't direct her question at either of them specifically and ended up receiving their answers simultaneously.

"Whimsical."

"Passionate."

She looked up curiously from the screen to find them sharing similar glances with each other. "Um… I meant physically, guys. The kind of physical attributes that would attract you to a girl..."

"So, you're writing us off as shallow from the get-go."

She quirked a brow at the redhead's insinuation, because… Yeah. She had pretty much assumed from his pictures he'd have little to say about his predilection in the opposite sex beyond bra size. A sense of whimsy would have been the last thing on the list of what she'd expected him to want in a girl.

"You know, for someone who's never taken the time to speak to more than three people the entirety of her career at this school, you have a lot of preconceived notions about people here." Her eyes trailed away from Finnick to lock on Peeta's, who seemed bent on boring through her with his.

Well, if he thought something as innocuous as a look would cow her…

"This isn't Shakespeare we're marketing to these kids, people. You two are in little more than underwear in these shots," she stabbed a finger at the monitor. "What did you think when you posed for these? That the people who want to count the freckles on your pecs and trace their fingers over the contours of your massive quadriceps on bloody print will care if you can even read?"

"No. You are agreeing to be objectified and exploited because you are superlatively beautiful. Your body is insane. You are so unique; people will stupidly squander their hard-earned cash just to gawk at you. So, no. This isn't about my preconceived notions about you, though I won't insult us both by pretending I had none. This is about the fact that no one who buys these stupid calendars wants to know anything about you beyond your favorite color, your favorite food, what kind of cookie you'd be if you were a freaking cookie and whether you dig blondes or brunettes."

She was sure the harangue had originated towards both teenagers. Therefore, she'd be hard-pressed to provide a suitable answer if questioned about how she'd ended it on her feet, palms flat on the desk, inclining almost completely over it, nostrils flaring while glaring daggers at the blonde sitting stoically before her.

The battle of the blazing retinas waged on for a few more seconds, the combatants oblivious to the amused stare from their audience of one, reclining his head on the elbow and fist he'd propped up on the table, until Peeta spoke again. His tone was measured and several decibels lower than any he'd used until that point. "Orange—burnt, like a sunset, brilliant and mixing with a thousand other shades. Chocolate. Hot cocoa. My dad's family has a special recipe that'll make your toes curl. Chocolate chip, I guess. Who wants to be a cookie? Brunettes. Definitely brunettes. There's enough blond in my gene pool already."

She blinked. Once. Then twice.

"What?"

"He's answering your questions, Everdeen. You should really try to concentrate. You seem a little—I don't know—distracted?" Finnick sent a mock sympathetic pout at her and she returned the kindness with a sneer, fighting the urge to follow it up with a vulgar one-handed gesture.

"Fine."

She plopped back on the large, plush executive chair and typed away Peeta's response on the Word document she'd opened for the interview, trying to ignore the penetrating stare she could still see out of her periphery and the gastronomic butterflies it provoked. Why was he still looking at her like that? She'd folded. He'd won. Jeesh!

She tried to take her mind off those hypnotic eyes by questioning Finnick.

"You heard the questions, Apollo."

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully for far longer than it should conceivably take to conjure a response, making her tap her short fingernails on the desk near the keyboard sequentially. He was so infuriating.

"I like girls…" he said slowly, purposely dragging each syllable. She contemplated stabbing him with the ballpoint pen in the pencil holder. Peeta started chuckling softly again. "With long hair the color of a moonless sky…" He pretended to be lost in his vision of this hypothetical girl and she lost it.

"Finnick, for the love of god. I will throttle you. Get it out. If I can wrestle down a wounded wild boar, I can figure out a way to take you down, ass."

Both teenagers widened their eyes at her outburst.

"Oh, I don't care anymore, people. You're both exhausting. This was supposed to be a few seconds of my overtaxed day. I'll just make something up for this stupid calendar."

Finnick held up his hands in surrender. "No, don't. I'm sorry. I'll behave. But you have to answer the questions for us, too. It's only fair. Deal?"

Katniss shifted her eyes between the two boys who looked on expectantly, then sighed in defeat. "Fine. If it'll get this over with. I'm not dating anyone-"

"Bull!" Finnick coughed into his fist.

"Excuse you?"

Finnick swiped at his nose with the back of his hand, pretending he hadn't just interrupted, then met her gaze with an overly dramatic, mock remorseful frown. "Oh, I'm so sorry. It's my allergies. They're triggered by bullshit."

She let out a clipped laugh, entirely devoid of humor. "Who's assuming crap about whom now? This jerk just pointed out not five minutes ago just how social I am. Please, tell me who you idiots think I'm hooking up with?"

"Hawthorne."

Now her insides turned for an entirely new reason, but she still found herself unable to keep the laugh from escaping her as she traced eyes back to Peeta, who'd grown oddly somber the moment he'd uttered her best friend's surname. "You morons have the worst informed little jock sewing circle. Christ! My personal life is none of your business, so stay out of it. But just so you don't ruin things for two of the few friends I have," she took a deep, centering breath, "Gale Hawthorne is not into brunettes. He's into blondes. He's very into one specific blonde, as a matter of fact, whose father isn't exactly keen on her being into someone without a trust fund. So, it'd be really great if you stifled this stupid little rumor about us before it gets to her, because it would just about destroy her."

"He's been picking you and your little sister up from school since he got that crappy Camaro. We all just thought…" Peeta ventured sheepishly, more to himself.

"Well, you thought wrong," she huffed peevishly, pretending her stomach hadn't flipped at his casual knowledge of her transportation arrangements over the last four years. This was not something one learned about a fellow student in a day. It took a degree of vested interest. Much as would be required in learning someone's locker location every year, so one could plausibly pass them every morning and every afternoon, even if one would never actually greet them. Because, they'd never so much as bothered acknowledging one's existence in a total twelve years of cohabitant schooling and, why bother now? But, something about their presence had always been cathartic, so choosing a locker near theirs had become second nature.

Not that Katniss would know anything about such a practice.

"My favorite color's a deep green, the kind you find everywhere in the woods in spring. I love lamb stew. I'd maybe be a butter cookie? That's so stupid." She went back to pretending to type something into the computer to give her eyes somewhere to divert for her final answer, so they wouldn't read any tells. "I don't have a preference in hair color. It's different for girls, I guess. Your turn, Odair."

He spared her a sideways glance that spoke volumes of just how much he believed her, but went on to say, "White. I love the simplicity of white. I love seafood. I really do love that raven hair. And I wouldn't be a cookie, at all." He leaned over the table to whisper close to her ear, taking advantage of her being distracted with typing, "I'd be an éclair. Those explode in your mouth and make all your fingers sticky."

She immediately shoved a hand in his face, forcing him back to his seat. Her face twisted in a grimace, but she bit her inner cheek to keep the edge of her mouth from hitching at the disgustingly crass joke. "You're vile, Odair. I'm starting to sympathize with this Annie chick."

He jutted his lower lip in such an exaggerated fashion, she had to dig her teeth into hers to keep turned back to Peeta, minutely catching his gaze flitting away from her mouth to focus on her eyes. She noted with curiosity the blue within had darkened considerably.

"Okay. All I need now is a brief statement on why you guys are doing this and we're all set."

Without preamble, Peeta met her challenge, his voice ringing with a cadence she'd never heard from him before—full of reverence, purpose and determination. She found herself entranced by his words as her eyes, of their own volition, listed toward his mouth. The way his lips moved, the tendons that flexed intermittently over his prominent jaw... it all ensnared her.

"Coach Dalton has instated a rich tradition of recruiting kids from the poorest neighborhoods in the Seam for the squad. You're from the Seam, right Katniss?" She'd barely registered the question, but still bobbed her head absently.

"These kids have no positive influences outside these sports programs in most cases. They're keeping them off the streets, teaching them discipline and good sportsmanship. Every time we get a win, they feel empowered and accomplished. Staying on the team affords them reason to keep up their grades and we have an inner squad peer-tutoring program set up so anyone who needs help can ask a teammate. But, most of these kids depend on the school for the single meal they get a day and they definitely can't afford the cost for gear and transport out of state to the championships. So we're asking those who can help in the community to support our squad. Help us get to States."

She'd hardly been aware of the autogenetic action, but managed to type everything he'd spoken—sparing grammar and spell checks—and found herself riveted to ask follow up questions. "Why you, though? It's not exactly a well-kept secret that the Mellarks are one of the better off families in this school." She shifted her focus toward Finnick, "Or that the Odairs own the largest luxury resorts on three of the lakes in this town. Why would you two bother doing this?"

"Because my dad played for this school and his corporation sponsors both the athletics and arts programs here," Peeta supplied with a shrug. "And so does Finn's family. But it's not nearly enough when sixty-seven percent of the children here come from families living at or below the poverty line. Are they not supposed to benefit from the extracurricular activities because they are too poor to afford the equipment? That's why we did it. Because we have the means to do it and anyone with the means has a responsibility to help those who don't. And besides, I'm the youngest. There won't be any more Mellarks to uphold traditions at this school for a while. I have to leave an enduring legacy. The freshman I'm grooming for captain once I'm gone is Seam too. And if what you said before is true, you'll really appreciate the collateral benefits to what we're trying to achieve. His older brother and two younger siblings will definitely benefit from the surplus sales revenue this calendar could potentially bring the squad. The Hawthornes won't have to worry about him needing cash for new gear likely until he graduates. Maybe it'll serve as incentive for Vick joining JV when he's old enough."

Katniss's eyes widened at this. "You're making Rory captain?" she blurted excitedly.

Peeta tipped his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips at her approval. "The kid has definite leadership potential, but he's still green. Can't wait to see me gone, sweetheart?"

She side-eyed him for the stupid nickname before clucking her tongue. "No. It's just… Prim. She's got a thing for Rory and she's like… a girl, girl, you know? She'll be stoked to be going out with the captain of the wrestling team. Once he gets around to formally asking her out. Or she makes him. They're cute, but they're just kids. I'm really happy for them."

Peeta stared fixated as her smirk grew wide and distant while speaking about her little sister, noting it was the first time she'd allowed herself an unguarded smile in the entire course of their conversation. It was beautiful.

"Well", she heaved, coming back to herself with a shake of her head. "That should be everything. I will edit and proof read all of this. Mr. Heavensbee will have the mock up to the printer by Friday. They've promised five-hundred copies by next Wednesday. How will you guys go about distributing them?"

"Text spiral," Finnick offered. "We'll send a standardized text to everyone we know letting them know about the calendar and where they can get it, for how much and what not. It includes a request to forward the message to anyone they know. Eventually it kinda goes viral."

"Well," Katniss wrote down her phone number on a sticky and passed it to Peeta. "Here's mine. Let me know when you guys have it and I'll give my share to help out your team."

Peeta quickly snatched up the phone number before getting to his feet. He exchanged a fleeting glance with Finnick before thanking Katniss for her time and walking to the exit.

Finnick lingered—for what purpose, she could only guess—and brandished a heartthrob half smirk, getting to his feet once he'd heard the door close. "Thank you so much for your patience, Miss Everdeen. And, just so you're aware, all those involved in the process of making the calendar will not only receive credit in Mr. Dalton's class, they receive a copy of the calendar, as well—free of charge. We're footing the bill, after all. I'll bring you your copy once I have it." He winked and waved goodbye as he walked to the door.

She semi-waved back distractedly with a quick, "Thanks, Finnick. See ya," only having half listened to what he'd said, too absorbed in transferring all the interview dialogue from the Word doc to the layout.

It took several moments of typing for her hands to still as realization hit, causing her to utter breathlessly into the empty room:

"Why did he just take my number?"


	4. It Begins With a Whirr

Fridays were magical.

They were Katniss's very favorite day of the week. They were the furthest point from having to go back to school; all her deadlines met, for both the yearbook and the stupid digital school newspaper. And they became even more spectacular when her internship at the studio had begun, entire afternoons lavished at Cinna's. She was still reeling from earlier that evening, when he'd asked for her input—_hers_—on which frames from the shoot he'd done earlier that week he should send to the editor of CapOptimum for next month's issue. He'd even allowed her to edit some of them. She was learning so much from him. She really did owe Plutarch a kidney for that internship.

Damn. She so wanted to keep both of those.

**_Buzzzzzz_**

She ran out of the bathroom and into the adjoining bedroom upon hearing her ridiculously loud phone vibrator, tapping the screen to find a pending message from an unrecognized number.

_UNKNOWN CALLER: hey took so long to work up the nerve to text/ how are u?_

Her brows furrowed at her screen. This reeked of prank.

_KATNISS: I swear Jo if ur using anonymous texter to screw w/ me again…_

She threw the phone on her bed and stomped over to her dresser, letting the towel fall from around her to slip on a pair of underwear and shrug on a cami. End of the week meant, hopefully, no more bra for forty-eight hours. Thank god for loose hoodies and sweat pants.

The next buzz of the phone brought her back to plop belly down beside the contraption.

_UNKNOWN CALLER: the dynamic u have with this Jo person intrigues me / u said u were a photographer/ can i ask u a question?_

This piqued her curiosity and she quickly keyed back her response.

_KATNISS: depends/ who is this?_

The response took seconds.

_UNKNOWN CALLER: Peeta_

She did a double take at her phone. No way. She tapped in her reply furiously.

_KATNISS: no Jo last time I tell u anything about anything ever/not funny_

She moaned and leered at her phone when the alert reverberated once more.

_UNKNOWN CALLER: I really want to meet this Jo girl/ maybe we can hook her up w/ Finn/ help him get over Annie_

She cursed under her breath, fingers flying over the screen.

_KATNISS: OMG! I'm sorry Peeta/ why are u texting me?/ hello_ :)

She quickly recorded his name into her contacts while awaiting his response.

_PEETA: I wanted to check in on u/ don't catch u much around school this year/ needed to ask if u know what Girl-On-Fire studios is/ Fulvia sent my pictures to this place and they want to sign me to some thing/ help_

Katniss's stomach fluttered. Cinna's place? Peeta must've really caught Fulvia's fancy for her to send his shots to her favored protégé. Cinna wasn't a talent or modeling agent, but in the short time she'd worked with him, Katniss had learned he did, on extremely rare occasions, broker contracts for young people he believed could make it in the industry. He'd help them get exposure so that a proper agency would take interest.

Did Peeta want to get into modeling? This could be huge for him. And, she could admit, she looked forward to working with him down at the studio. Fulvia had done amazing things with him with the limited lenses in her private collection, but Cinna had cutting edge technology in lighting and photography. She couldn't wait to see what she could bring out in Peeta. Warranted, she was getting ahead of herself. She'd only used the cameras once in the month she'd been interning there.

_KATNISS: that's Cinna's/ this is wonderful Peeta/ he could get u a lot of work/ he's an amazing photographer_

_PEETA: so u work there?/ I'm not crazy about more modeling/ u saw my pictures_

Whatever he meant was beyond her. He was magnificent in those photos. She'd yet to pry the image of his sparsely clad body from her consciousness after three days. Not that she'd admit it.

_KATNISS: u don't have to do it if u don't want to/ yeah i work there/ intern/ no pay but I'm learning tons/ hope to keep it once i start college/ need a part time job too/ this could help u earn cash for school/ u can ask your uncle to review the contract/ I might get to take pictures of u_

She found herself worrying her lip between her teeth as she waited out his reply.

_PEETA: okay/ I'll send the contract to uncle Haymitch / I'll see what i decide after that when the calendar comes out/ hey some of the guys from the team are over at my house for pizza & a movie/ Finn is trying to get Annie to come/ he'll have better odds if there's another girl here/ u busy?_

She all but chewed clear through her lip rereading the message. Was that a—? Was he asking her out?

Nah. Hanging out with friends, acting as the unwitting lure to get some poor girl into Finnick Odair's clutches, hardly constituted a date. He was obviously trying to be friendly. He'd always been very friendly. Many were the girls she'd noticed him getting intimately _friendly_ with around his locker over the years.

She blew out a slow breath through her nose, convincing herself that _was not_ disappointment coiling just beneath her ribs.

_KATNISS: Rory's coming over in a few to see Prim/ I'm the unofficial chaperone cause mom's working a late shift/ some other time?_

She tapped her fingers sequentially against the cheek she braced on her open palm.

_PEETA: lol / okay/ see u around school ;)_

"Yeah," she huffed out to the empty, suddenly stifling room before launching off the bed to get some proper clothes on. "See ya around..."


	5. Here I Come To Save The Day!

"I want to sink my teeth into—"

Katniss jacked up the volume on her phone as loud as it went, simultaneously ramming the bud so far in her ear, she feared she'd irrevocably damaged the eardrum. With agility borne of enforced redundancy, she maneuvered sharply around yet another clique of jittering girls in the hallway, bent over one of the calendars. She didn't bother a glance at who it was they were referring to. At this point, she couldn't be bothered to care.

The things had been in circulation for little over eighteen hours. The first of the texts had gone out a day before to get a buzz going.

Anarchy had erupted from there.

Finnick had barely salvaged a copy for her before the first set sold out. And hers had been one of five on reserve. They'd put in a request from the printer for another five-hundred—all already now on pre-order.

She wasn't sure who was buying them. There weren't that many kids in the school. And the notion teachers might want them was just plain disturbing. Or any other adult, for that matter. She was still coming to terms with the unsettling reality that _she_was technically an 'adult'.

On the bright side, when he'd handed her the copy, Finn had told her they'd exceeded their profit goal for the championships. And, after accounting for taxes, they hoped to bank a sizeable excess in the squad's treasury fund for future ventures. It'd been the one positive in this havoc.

The moment the calendar started to propagate, it'd ignited passions—to some intriguingly polarizing ends.

Girls school-wide were swooning, cutting out and taping their favorite shots to the inside of their lockers. Problem there was… not all these girls were 'technically'…um…uninvolved. Katniss had been privy to many a heated lover's quarrel featuring phrases the likes of: "What does this prick have that I don't?", "It's only a freaking picture!" and the requisite "This is just about your insecurities, isn't it?"

She'd heard that Cato Douglas—the Varsity quarterback—had shoved Finnick into the sneeze guard in the lunch line during their period, accusing him of using this as some sort of ruse to get at his girl. Jo'd told her that, to Odair's credit, he hadn't bothered fighting back. He'd just laughed in the brute's face until school security lugged the moron off him. Apparently, he'd only made one parting shot—something about Cato doing a piss poor job at picking his targets.

Peeta had made himself conspicuously scarce. Not that she blamed him, but his absence was notable, nonetheless.

He hadn't been exaggerating a few nights prior when he'd mentioned they barely saw each other anymore. They had shared classes up until their junior year, but their differing planned college paths necessitated they take different courses their senior year and their schedules didn't coincide, at all. Usually, the only time she managed a glimpse of him was when they'd both stop at their lockers, since hers happened to be four down from his on the opposing wall. But he'd apparently not even needed to replenish books over the course of that day.

She had to turn another corner far too acutely to avoid two freshmen too engrossed in staring at July—upside-down, she noted with a roll of her eyes so sharp it ached—to watch where they were going as they headed toward the exit. She swore under her breath when the gesture landed her stinging eyeballs smack on Peeta's locker and her pulse quickened.

She pulled the buds from her ears, grateful for once for her diminutive stature as she moved unseen through the throngs of departing students to her own locker, her periphery unwavering from the scene playing out between Peeta and one of their classmates over her shoulder.

She took calming breaths as she spun her combination and exchanged the books she didn't need for those she did. She tried to pretend what was occurring behind her was like every other time she'd seen him with 'friends', like it was a normal interaction, like that kind of thing happened every day.

Like it wasn't completely depraved.

She didn't notice when her hands clenched into fists. Not that it mattered. She slammed her locker door, shouldered her book bag and made a beeline for Peeta.

God help her, she had no clue what she was doing.

X-X-X-X-X

Last. .

He was never listening to Rye again. He needed to get out of there. Guys he'd known his entire life, _friends_ were threatening him. Over nothing. He'd done nothing. They were just some stupid pictures. Lord knew, he didn't _want_ to take them. He knew this would happen. And the one person he'd hoped would take notice hadn't even bothered…

"Hey, Peeta."

He jerked away violently from the open locker, spinning and backing into the adjacent metal door, forcing the hand that'd made its way into his jeans—_into his bloody jeans_—out. He'd gotten more than his share of lewd remarks over the course of the day, plenty of shameless proposals. This was the first open assault.

"Cato all but jumped Finn today, Clove," he snarled at the statuesque girl—almost nose to nose to him in her four-inch heels—who unabashedly wrapped her arms around his waist. He kept his arms taut at his sides, hands clenching and unclenching, trying to keep his escalating temper at bay.

"We broke up," the raven-haired girl taunted, popping the 'p' almost against his lips. "I've recently acquired other interests."

His struggle to control his spiraling pulse causing his nostrils to flare with every elongated breath, Peeta used as little force as possible to wedge his hands at his sides, prying her arms from around him. He took a step forward so her over-perfumed chest wasn't heaving against him. "You might want to tell Cato that," he seethed lowly. "He's been grossly misinformed."

Before he realized what she was doing, she rammed both open palms into his broad chest, insinuating one of her legs between his as he slammed back into the lockers.

When his face contorted in rage, his whole frame visibly shaking, she smiled unpleasantly, ghosting over his lips, "What's the matter, Mellark? This too familiar for you? I would've figured you'd be into it after all those years. What do you say? Want me to play mommy?"

Instantly, he blanched, his face growing expressionless, his large hands coming to wrap around her wrists, forcing them back toward her own chest with just enough force to make her take a step away from him. He kept his composure, but burned his repulsion into her with the molten ice of his eyes.

She grinned back triumphantly.

"Oh, Peeta, I finally caught up to you. Hasn't it been crazy around here today?"

He barely had a split second to turn the sneer from Clove and soften his expression in the general direction of Katniss's voice, before he found her mouth slanted over his, her arms slung around his neck in an awkward sideways embrace.

He was so shocked for a beat; he almost didn't catch her, his brain taking far too long to register she'd needed to leap to capture his mouth for the strangely angled kiss. The instant the realization blazoned that she was flush to him, his arm swung up to cradle her lower back, better centering her against his torso and elevating her slightly so their mouths aligned. His eyes, which had widened at first at her unpremeditated act, listed closed. He pressed his lips more forcefully to hers, allowing them to rove slowly to fully impress on his skin the feel of her.

Too soon, she drew back, that bottom lip pulling between her teeth, nearly wrenching a longing groan out of him. Her quicksilver eyes didn't meet his, but the uncharacteristically shrill pitch to her inflection betrayed her escalating apprehension.

"I won't keep you. I know you're super busy today. I'm just going to get that stuff we talked about from Mr. Heavensbee and I'll meet you at your car, okay? Don't be long." Then she gave him one last suffering peck to the lips and untangled her arms from around his neck, which, even in his entirely addled state, he took as cue to set her down.

She bumped none too gently into Clove as she passed with an insincere, saccharine smile, a venomous glare and a mocking, "Oops! Sorry, didn't notice you there."

Out the corner of his eye, Peeta noticed Clove snap her neck with a cluck of her tongue as she stomped off heatedly toward the exit, but he never lost sight of Katniss strutting in the opposite direction and around the corner.

He was sure his jaw would be sore later that night form how wide and idiotic he was smiling.


	6. Real Or Not Real?

_Stupid, stupid, stupid…_

The back of her head made hard impact with the hood of the ivory, late nineties Town Car, the mantra thrumming through her skull with the violence of each blow. She didn't care that she looked like a psychopath, sprawled over the hood of some random (not hers) car. The lot was empty of but a few vehicles—stragglers, likely other kids on the squad putting in extra practice for the championships.

Detached apathy was the best she could muster toward the casual observer who'd rightfully judge her a lunatic. It fit. She would've had to be out of her mind to pull what she'd pulled.

But she was determined to stick around and explain it to _him_. She was mortified and ashamed, but she needed to put some context to what she'd done, get him to understand she was _not_ trying to do to him what that tramp was doing. She'd never.

God, she couldn't fathom what he thought of her.

"Go easy on 'er, sweetheart. She's old, but she's been good to me."

Her head slumped sideways, fingers previously pressed into her eye sockets in a desperate attempt to vent frustration fanning to allow a peek at the boy standing casually by the car, tilting his head with a lopsided grin.

"I can explain," she mumbled meekly from under her palms.

"Get in," came the aloof command as response. He swung the large sports duffle from over his shoulder, heading to the rear door to settle it in the back seat.

Diffidently, she scurried off the hood and came around to slump into the front passenger seat, interlacing her fingers over her lap and swinging her legs so her knees knocked. Her bottom lip found its way between her teeth as she waited for him to settle into the driver seat and face her. Once she could feel those piercing eyes beaming into the side of her head, she took a deep breath and let it out without turning to look at him.

"That wasn't cool. She was… I mean… a guy wouldn't get away with doing that to a girl in the middle of the hallway with everyone walking out the freaking door. It was sick and the things she was saying," she paused to suck a breath through clenched teeth. "I barely know you, but you've never been anything but nice to everyone… and so were your brothers… and whatever happened to you at… it's not cool that she brought that up… and I just wanted people to stop thinking it was okay to paw at you because of those stupid pictures… and I couldn't come up with anything better… and I figured if they thought you and me… you know… not that I'm insinuating anything between you and me, mind you… it was just a stupid idea to get her off you."

God, she was rambling. But she'd been struck by some mortal case of word vomit. She couldn't make it stop.

"Not that I think you needed my help, of course. I'd never presume... I was just so pissed. I wasn't thinking straight. Sorry. Christ, I'm so sorry."

She let out a long breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and finally turned to him, winking one eye cautiously to gauge his reaction—kinda freaked he hadn't spoken during that entire spiel. Steeling herself, she added in as contrite a tone as she could muster, "Um... also, sorry that I can't kiss any better? I've only kissed, like… two other guys, back in middle school and the experience kinda blew. At first, I did it just to _know_, you know? What was the big deal? And the second was to make sure the first wasn't some gross fluke. It wasn't. They both blew. You were right, what you said about me, during our interview? I don't dig the whole social scene. Sooo… truce?"

She wasn't sure how it'd happened. One moment she'd been asking his forgiveness—certain beyond any doubt she couldn't make a bigger idiot of herself—and the next, his hand had reached across to bury in the base of her braid, his lips swiftly following to seal over hers. Somehow, in a mind-boggling, split-second agile move, he'd had the presence of mind to elbow the armrest out of the way, allotting the space and leverage to move over her, the pressure of his weight surrounding her in tingling heat. His other sinew-strewn arm came to wrap soundly around her waist, what infinitesimal space had remained between them vanquished by his vice grip. Heaving a breath, he skimmed his mouth away, panting over her lips, "Thank you, Katniss," before descending again, more demanding.

Sensation bled into all the edges of her consciousness, consuming—the delicious friction of his lips awakening neurons she'd never known she possessed. She was crackling with awareness. Sharp, exacting teeth raked, scored, ravaged the soft flesh of her upper lip. The buzz of it so shocking, it forced an exhilarated gasp from down in her chest. The tip of his tongue burned a trail of icy fire, smoothing over her swelling lower lip, dipping—seemingly to taste that narrow crevice separating the inside of her lips and gums. And she shivered, never having felt the like, something caught in a bewildering plane between polarizing and infinitely more—something scalding.

On some existential level not worth acknowledging, she was aware she was making breathless, high-pitched sounds one could hardly construe as human—pathetic little moans and snarls. When his hand came around to caress her jawline, the pad of his thumb stroking the tender flesh of her lower lip until it parted, allowing his tongue the access it'd been coveting, she all but growled. Her hands dug so deep into the tendons weaving his massive back, she swallowed the corresponding moan that reverberated from the very bowels of his core, over the warm, muscular organ encroaching and wrestling for dominance in her mouth. Her short nails became anchors, a mainstay from floating into oblivion, as he his large hand steadied her cheek, giving his adroit tongue free reign to etch a molten map of every dip and crest on the roof, every taste bud, every curve of her inner cheeks. By the time he drew back, taking her bottom lip hostage briefly in the hesitant retreat, she gasped to fill her lungs, feeling thoroughly explored, yet still bewilderingly famished.

"Wh-what was that for?" she sighed, her lids too sluggish and heavy to open beyond half-slits as she struggled to gather her bearings, to focus. The way the pad of his thumb continued stroking her plump bottom lip, his amused eyes searing hers, was not helping that endeavor.

"I figured if you wanted to pretend there was something between us for the sake of keeping the hordes at bay… you'd want to learn the ways of a proper kiss. You know, something that didn't—as you said—blow."

His words, spoken in a husky, low tenor that echoed through her very marrow, brought that now familiar flutter of excitement and anxiety to her belly. It was confusing, his choice of words, that kiss, all exacerbated by the lack of proper oxygenation to her brain. Was this an entreaty? Were they agreeing to play some role? Or was there something more? Did she even want more? Did he? He was being entirely too disarming and ambiguous for the way he'd just kissed her. He couldn't kiss her like that and get all cryptic. That wasn't fair.

An edge of her mouth found itself upturning even as her bottom lip, of its own accord, once more found itself lodged between her teeth.

"Christ, Everdeen, you have to stop doing that," he snarled, enveloping her mouth again, teeth and tongue working in swift concert to wrest her lower lip from twixt her own incisors. The gesture was so abrupt, she released a keen she was not entirely sure derived from surprise or thrill—more likely than not, both.

Just as quickly, he broke away, with one final swipe of the very tip of his tongue at her Cupid's bow.

Yes. He could decidedly teach a symposium on this. She had to choke back a groan at the loss of contact when he moved away, mind working a mile a minute to refocus. Having him this close, doing this, made thoughts moot.

"So…" she attempted, still very fuzzy, "the first kiss was to thank me… the second was to teach me and this last one…" she let the thought trail, still gazing dazedly into the darkened swirls of blues in his eyes.

His very golden eyebrows arched knowingly, a devious, twisted smirk etching his features. "Well, practice makes perfect. We should be convincing, right? Don't think this calendar hype's dying down anytime soon. Watcha doing this afternoon?"

At his question, her eyes widened and she stiffened, attempting to straighten in the seat to find a clock on the dash. "Crap, what time is it?"

Peeta outstretched an index finger to help her sight the digital display on the stereo, righting himself in his seat. "Four twenty-seven."

She ran her hands roughly over her face and up into her hair. "God, I have so much homework! Hopefully Prim got off our dinosaur of a PC already by the time I get home. She didn't have practice today." She reached for the door handle, but Peeta stopped her with a hand to her shoulder.

"What are you doing?"

"It's only fifteen blocks out on Chariot Avenue. I've been walking home since Gale started working full time and taking night courses," she explained. "It's fine. I hike a thirteen-mile trail a few times a year. This is ten, fifteen minutes tops for me at a mild pace."

He set his lips in a thin line. "Strap in. I'm driving you." The finality in his tone left little room for argument.

The car was veering out of the parking lot as soon as she clicked her seat belt in place and she found a question grating at the fringe of her mind. "Didn't you have any plans tonight? I saw you pulling a bunch of books from your locker before She-Who-Has-No-Personal-Boundaries pounced."

He chuckled lightly and shrugged a shoulder. "Actually, I have a shift from six to ten. Then I have an AP European Lit essay that's two thirds of the way done I have to turn in first period tomorrow… and I _might_ have Physics stuff…" He turned that devious, slanted smile on her again. "But I was willing to reprioritize and come up with some terrible stomach bull to feed Dad for some quality 'practice' time." He let go of the steering wheel to do the air quotes with wiggling fingers and she bit into her thumb to keep from snickering. "A guy needs to know what's important. Sleep can wait."

"Slacker," she mumbled through her teeth into her thumb. She was working her way through deciphering the meaning behind everything that'd occurred the last fifteen minutes—this bizarre conversation. Were they plotting some contrived show for the benefit of the people in school or something else entirely? There was no one but them in the car and their repartee was so organic, so fluid. It didn't _feel_ staged. Who would they be pretending for now, anyway? Were they still pretending? Had she ever been? Had he? She should really ask these questions before this… whatever this was… escalated further.

"So, what are you doing tomorrow night?"

"Fridays are studio days," she didn't hesitate to answer, momentarily shelving her previous thread of thoughts. "I'm at Cinna's from the moment school lets out until whenever he decides he wants to call it a day. Sometimes we're there until midnight."

His jovial demeanor fell somewhat at her answer. "Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. He called. Sounded like a decent guy. Uncle Haymitch said the contract seemed fair. Your friend would take a standard ten percent finder's fee. He…um… he wants to draw up a portfolio for me. Offered to do it free of charge as long as I sign to use him exclusively."

She turned fully in her seat to scrutinize him. Something in the hesitation of his words sounded off. "I meant what I texted you, Peeta. You don't have to do this."

He lowered his eyes to the steering wheel, watching the road through his ridiculously long eyelashes. "Do you think I should?"

"You don't strike me as the type to cave to peer pressure."

"Is that what you are to me? A peer? I'll add that word to the list I use to define you, sweetheart," he snorted with no mirth.

He turned to face her when she heaved a sigh and found her scowling, arms wrapped tightly over her chest. He turned back to the road, one hand coming up to rake over his disheveled curls roughly.

"I…uh…Finnick wasn't really joking during our interview, Katniss. Not everyone is comfortable in their skin."

His response struck her as such a surprise, the frazzled "What?" slipped past her lips before she could think better of it.

He shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat. "Do you remember what I looked like when I was little, Katniss?"

She was caught off guard by the question, but took a moment to recall him when they were younger. She remembered a kind, cherubic face, always angular, even when he was very young, brilliant blue eyes, strong if not particularly long legs. He was the fastest boy in their class. He always won the relays. Never the tallest. Always kind. Always talkative. Accident prone. Bruises. Splints. Burns.

"You were cute," she decided on. "And strong. You always won those little medals in Phys Ed at the end of the year—"

"I was husky, Katniss," he interrupted with another scoff. "And for a couple of years, between nine and twelve, I was right-down chunky."

She wracked her brain to recall this and honestly couldn't.

"No you weren't."

He turned, eyes round in a cross between skepticism and scrutiny, as if imploring her not to lie to him. "I…the person charged with buying my clothes, until tragically recently, would strongly disagree with you. Believe me, she was very vocal on the subject." He let out a forced laugh at his own recollections, his gaze growing distant.

It made Katniss's stomach turn.

She'd never met Peeta and Rye's parents, but she'd heard the rumors, seen the short temper the baker's wife was notorious for evidenced on her children—the swollen eyes, the casts, the purpling skin, hidden in clothing far too shrouding for the exceedingly warm weather had been standards for these boys as far back as anyone could remember. She wasn't sure if it was overstepping boundaries for their quasi-existent friendship, but she felt compelled to reach over to squeeze Peeta's hand across the armrest.

His thumb rubbed absent circles across the back of her hand as he continued, so quiet she wasn't sure he still meant her to hear. "There was no reason for her to lie, you know. Appearances were paramount to her. We had to be perfect… all three of us… always perfect. Anything else was unacceptable."

He turned a sad smile on her, eyes widening slightly as if emerging from a trance and realizing he'd had an audience. "Wow, that got totally dark, didn't it?" He tried injecting humor into his tone, but the mirth fell well short of his eyes.

Katniss squeezed his hand, unsure of what to say—if she should say anything to that. He was wrong. God, he was wrong. He'd been beautiful as long as she'd known him and he was magnificent now. A dark part of her wanted to wring the neck of the woman who'd caused him to ever doubt that.

"Is she," she ventured tentatively, tacitly, noting they'd turned into her block. "Does she still say those things to you? Because she can't be more wrong. I'm that fifth house on the right, by the way. The one with the rose hedges on the front porch. Dad planted them for Prim the week she was born." She had no notion why she added that last tidbit. An attempt to make this conversation a smidge less agonizing, maybe?

Peeta pulled into her driveway dutifully, remaining so ominously quiet, she thought maybe he had not heard the first part of her statement. After a few heartbeats of him staring out the driver window introspectively at her house, she decided breaching that topic was a mistake. He was obviously not comfortable talking to her about it. And why would he be? He barely knew her. Two conversations and less than a handful of exceptionally mind-blowing kisses didn't make someone a confidante. Steadfastly, she made the decision for both their benefits to just get out and never bring the subject up again—not that he appeared particularly inclined to speak to her again after that car ride.

She was unprepared for the pressure in her chest at that last thought. She berated herself for asking that stupid question and ruining whatever embers of camaraderie they'd been stoking. She found it jarring how quickly her fondness for him had grown. Or, maybe, how quickly the fondness that'd lain dormant, just under the surface, had flared once she'd had an excuse to commune with him. Either way, the thought of losing what they'd been building toward stung.

Before she could step out, however, the hand that'd been inching away, but had not quite made it out of Peeta's grasp tugged back almost violently and she found her eyes locking on infinite spirals of intercalating blue, each richer than the next, infused with a desperation that stole the breath from her lungs.

"The divorce was final two years ago, but she moved out just before I turned fourteen," Peeta explained in a breath, as if rushing what he said would make saying it easier. His hand buried in his curls, clearly uneasy with the words he forced out. "It doesn't matter, though. She still… I believed her, Katniss, did whatever she told me to. I mean, I wanted her to like me... no, love me, accept me. I started lifting… far earlier than any doctor will recommend is healthy. I-I just needed to feel wanted, you know?"

Now at a complete loss for a response, Katniss could only gape numbly, mouth slightly parted as he allowed his head to lull back against the headrest with a thump, the hand that hadn't intertwined in hers coming down from his hair to apply pressure to his eyes with his thumb and index fingers.

"I'm not oblivious," his voice pitched slightly, regaining some of the confidence she'd always recognized in it before, losing that vulnerability that was entirely foreign. "I know what other people see when they look at me _now_. I know the work I've had to put into developing healthy diet and exercise routines had positive results."

Katniss couldn't help scoff at that. Defining his appearance as just 'positive results' was the understatement of the century.

He uncovered his eyes to send a flattered half-smirk her way at the sound. "I still struggle to see that myself, though. I equate every bite I eat to how long it'll take to burn off on the track, how many lunges or squats, how many pull-ups and crunches. Things started going south for my folks after my stint in the hospital at twelve, when Dad couldn't ignore what I'd been doing anymore. He got me a nutritionist and counseling. It's helped a lot—in a lot of ways. But I'm not sure how comfortable I am exposing myself to an industry built exclusively on exploiting outer beauty. It feels so counter-productive to everything I've struggled to accomplish, putting myself in a position where I'll constantly be exposed to criticism based on my outward appearance. I've had more than enough of that to last a lifetime."

Katniss could reply nothing to that. Did she think he was completely wrong about his looks and prospects as a model? Absolutely. Was the modeling industry fickle, shallow and unforgivingly cruel to the point of depravity? Yup.

There was no way she was offering a recommendation as to what he should do. She had no clue. And what was more, she had no place. She'd gathered from his texts a few nights before that he considered her something of an authority in the field into which he'd unwittingly been thrust—which she most certainly wasn't—and that was likely why he'd felt compelled to share this obviously personal insight. But, now that she knew, she felt even worse for the small role she'd played in the development of that insipid calendar and the resulting interest from the likes of Fulvia and Cinna.

Not that modeling for Cinna's clientele would be like school. It wouldn't be as intimate and it could potentially help him pay his way through school. But she had no idea the psychological toll it could have on someone with his peculiar body image issues and she felt compelled now more than ever to protect him from getting hurt again, keep anyone from doing to him what that monster who'd gotten him to see himself as anything other than exceptional had done.

"I suck at acting, guy."

Desperation for a change of topic had settled the longer she went unable to contribute to their dialogue and _that_ was what her staggered mind could conjure in the oppressive silence. She cringed inwardly at her lack of eloquence when he cocked a confused eyebrow at her out-of-left-field outburst. "I mean," she tried to elaborate, frowning. "I don't know if you noticed back there, but I sucked at pretending to be your… whatever… for Clove's benefit. I was almost fumbling to get that crap about Mr. Heavensbee out. I don't think this act thing's going to work. Maybe we should call it off before someone calls us on the lie and we both look like idiots, okay?"

He narrowed his eyes critically at her, before shrugging a shoulder. "Okay."

Wow. All right. She wasn't sure what she'd expected, maybe more of a fight? Though that was pretentious of her because, really, what did they have between them? A rudimentary start to a promising friendship, unmistakable chemistry and good rapport? That shouldn't entitle her to expect more from him after a week than he'd given her.

None of that helped mitigate the burn in her chest or the drop in her stomach at his quick acquiescence. With a painfully dry swallow and pointed determination not to let her brows pinch into the jilted scowl they were inching toward, she gave a curt, "Okay then, I'll see you around," and pulled at the handle, hoping to make as quick a retreat as possible. That car had grown impossibly claustrophobic the last ten seconds.

The door had barely cracked open an inch when it slammed closed, nearly catching the very tip of her sneakered toe. Instinctively, she recoiled, head twisting around to scold him for nearly maiming her, when the arraignment stifled in a surprised "Hrumpf!" as his mouth slanted over hers again. The arm he'd distended well across to reach the handle snaked its way around her, crushing her to his massive chest, the other was at her cheek again, caressing as he negated all functional thought with his lips.

Some indeterminate amount of time later, when he broke off to allow her a heaving lungful of air, she could vaguely register his throaty, breathless statement against her still tingling flesh. "You're right, Everdeen. You can't act to save your life. Let's not pretend. Call or text when you're done with homework?"

She nodded dumbly as he lingered one last soft kiss to just her upper lip before releasing her to move back to the driver seat, her mind whirling. She willed her fingers to stop trembling, her heart to stop thumping so hard it felt as if it would break the constraint of her ribs, as she opened the door.

She'd hoped to pace off quickly, avoid his witnessing the myriad of emotions unabashedly showcased across her features, but his call from within the vehicle compelled and she found herself leaning over the window to do the exact opposite.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he stated simply, that impossibly charming smile igniting the azure of his eyes.

She let out a slow breath, swimming listlessly in that stare for a second.

"I'll see you tomorrow."


	7. How It Is For Us

This was sacrilege. They'd managed to desecrate her Friday. She wanted blood.

And she hadn't seen Peeta.

Well, no. That wasn't entirely accurate. She did catch a glimpse of him storming out of the Principal's office just as she was making her way to that exact destination, having been summoned just before second period.

A middle aged man, decked in impeccably tailored Armani business attire (a suit meant to cut an intimidating air, the illusion dashed by the the slovenly twelve o'clock stubble), stormed through the doors a second after and caught up to him, impressively limber for someone with such a notable beer gut. She'd watched, apprehension escalating, as the man rested both hands on Peeta's shoulders, apparently attempting to settle him, as the teenager's fingers buried in his hair. Then Peeta had nodded curtly, hoisted his messenger bag and paced for the exit, leaving the man to sigh heavily and turn curious, light gray eyes on her.

That'd been her introduction to Haymitch Abernathy. The school board was citing them.

Well, to be more precise, the school board was pursuing Peeta and District Twelve High on some trumped up debasement charges, calling for Mr. Dalton's and Mr. Heavensbee's head, and generally conducting a witch hunt to incriminate anyone involved in the creation of the calendar—hence how _her_ name pulled up in the mix.

She'd spent better part of her morning listening to Peeta's uncle—a man she'd grudgingly given a wealth of respect for being the world's highest functioning alcoholic, if the large pulls he frequently took from his poorly hidden silver flask was any indication—argue heatedly before the representative from the board on his nephew's behalf. Apparently, some students—namely Cato Douglas and Marvel Holmes—had family representation on the board, who'd incited the charge after getting sent home for harassing Peeta and Finn the previous day. The couple of members bringing forth the complaint were stipulating the calendar was an unacceptable distraction to the learning environment and requesting everyone involved in its development and dissemination receive disciplinary action.

Mr. Abernathy pleaded on all their behalves, arguing their work was no more an interruption to the students than anything they could download or buy at their local convenience store and the only reason his 'client' was being targeted was his association with the school. In the end, the representative had agreed to an investigation into the allegations before coming to a decision, but they'd asked both Peeta and Finnick be suspended for the duration of the process—one week—as way of assuring no further _incidents_ with other students occurred.

Such bull.

At least Hatmitch had managed to convince them Mr. Heavensbee and Coach Dalton had nothing to do with the calendars and they were spared, not given so much as leave.

But championships were fourteen days out and Peeta wouldn't be allowed on school premises for half that time to prepare his own squad. It sucked.

She tried to diffuse the looming dark cloud as she stepped off the bus and onto the curb before Girl-On-Fire Studios. It wasn't helping that the last she'd heard from Peeta was a few texts they'd exchanged the previous night after he'd come home from his shift. He'd asked how her homework was going and she'd teased him about how late he'd have to stay up with his before he'd wished her a good night.

She was trying not to take it personally that he'd yet to respond to the three messages she'd sent over the course of the day. He'd left so ticked, she couldn't fault him for wanting space to blow off steam. But not hearing from him, not getting a sense on his thoughts on everything that had happened at school... it was taking a decidedly unsettling emotional toll. The last thing she wanted was to come off as needy when they'd just started getting to know each other. She of all people treasured independence and solitude. But, in light of everything that was going on, some kind of contact would've been appreciated.

The spacious reception area was tastefully decorated with three lounge couches, several side tables littered with fashion magazines, and a half-moon mahogany receptions desk toward the far wall. Katniss crossed it in a few strides, eager to get out back and working. She'd just waved hello to Octavia, the full-figured co-ed with pea-colored hair, who both served as receptionist and relief makeup artist, when she stiffened at the unmistakably familiar laughter coming from one of the stages just behind the front desk. She'd heard that throaty, infectious chortle a many times.

A narrowed, steel gaze cut to the young woman with green corn rolls at the desk to find her holding the magazine she'd been perusing up to her face, hiding everything but her eyes, which gleamed with mischievous amusement. "You have a good eye, babe," the receptionist jittered with a wink.

Katniss flushed, rolling her eyes as she moved through the doorless entryway into the studio, with a measure of stealth. It was preposterous, but somehow, she felt as if she was intruding.

The industrial warehouse space was immense, but sectioned into half a dozen different staging areas, each separated by makeshift cardboard backdrops or green screens—depending on what the shoot required.

She followed the sound of Cinna's soothing voice and the intermittent chuckling to the stage at the very corner of the studio. She was grateful for the four strobe soft boxes—each as tall as she was—flanking the shooting area. The blinding white they shone hid her approach perfectly, granting her eyes the leisure to roam.

If Peeta had been spectacular in photographs, he was breathtaking in the flesh.

The setup Cinna had chosen was very simple: just the white backdrop, a white rectangle support, holding a white surfboard… and Peeta… lying on the surfboard. On his side. Elbow bent to support his propped head. Laughing.

Whatever it was that her mentor was saying to make this august boy laugh was lost on Katniss as she watched his body—clad only in tight navy blue swim shorts—react to his mirth. The woven muscles of his abdomen clenched, the swollen brawn of his pectorals roiled and twitched in the most mesmerizing way. The taut tendons of his neck strained around his bobbing Adam's apple.

He was marvelous.

After staring long enough her cheeks and neck were blazing, she cleared her throat roughly, stepping in front of the light so her silhouette could be visible.

"So, you decided to come after all."

Peeta's eyes widened as his head snapped in her direction. Instinctively, he sat up, arms coming to fold over his middle awkwardly, his gaze flitted bashfully from where she stood toward a spot off over Cinna's left. She traced his line of sight to a coat holder with a robe hanging from it.

"Not done with this set yet, Peeta," Cinna spoke with that kind, empathetic lilt she'd learned he favored during shoots. "And, remember, displaying the product is always paramount. So, keep the arms crossed if that's how you feel comfortable, but I need you to stand so I can see those shorts."

Katniss bit her lower lip to keep from snorting at the exasperated look Peeta shot the photographer as he slid off the prop, both hands coming to bury in his tousled hair. He responded to her without really focusing on her face, obviously unable to make out her features in the blinding light. "I figured I'd give this a try, seeing as I'm persona non grata in school for the foreseeable future… And Cato and Marvel's families are going to ridiculous lengths to screw with my scholarship. Then there's the fact that Dad's had to put three of us through college within a year or two of each other. Figured he can use whatever help he can get. It's the decent thing to do for, right? Besides, there _are_ side perks to doing this here." That lopsided smirk was back, if hesitant, accented by a quirked eyebrow. "How bad could it be?"

"Um, Cinna, could you give us a moment?"

The dark-skinned man stood from the kneel he'd assumed to continue shooting while the teens were conversing. He swung the strap of the camera from around his neck and handed it to Katniss. "I have a better idea," he posed with a warm smile. "How about you finish this set and I'll go start on the editing in my study. You two can come join me once you're done."

Overwhelmed by the generosity of the gesture, Katniss found a lump in her throat impeded anything beyond a hoarse, "thank you". She waited a few moments, listening to the man's steps recede, before closing the distance to Peeta. "Are you sure about this?" she whispered, once she was a foot in front of him.

He shrugged a shoulder, a tentative smile hitching the ends of his mouth. "Cinna seems to think I can make a decent go of it. We've been working on my portfolio for better part of the day. He'd already brokered a few shoots for me he was keeping on standby in case I accepted, so I have a few paying jobs in the works. And this," he snapped the waistband of his swimwear, causing her eyes to divert inappropriately to the muscles creating a perfect 'v' there, "Is part of a new swim line a friend of his is launching this Fall. He explained I'll likely only get specialty work—swimwear or underwear modeling. I'm too short for the runway. But, specialty work is very in-demand. And since I'm going to college locally, I can do this throughout. It won't interfere with my class schedules and the pay is good."

Katniss tried to focus on his words, but found it increasingly difficult when her attention kept diverting to the valley between his pectoral muscles. Unbidden, her hand came up to touch the patch of skin as she breathed, "Didn't you have a little trail of hair here, Peeta? I could've sworn I saw something here in the other pictures…"

A soft laugh escaped him. "That was Octavia. Cinna suggested I be smooth for the professional shots. I don't have much body hair and where I do, it's too blonde to notice, but the chest hair, apparently, was noticeable. So... um, Octavia waxed it off this morning."

Katniss sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, continuing to draw lazy circles over the soft skin. "Didn't that sting like crazy?"

Peeta swallowed thickly, a hand coming to wrap around her wrist. "Um… you need to stop touching me if we're going to finish this shoot, Everdeen. This… um… this suit hides nothing and, right now, I'm thinking of octogenarian nudist enthusiasts to keep from reacting to you. Give a guy a fighting chance, will ya?"

Out of nervous habit, her bottom lip found its way between her teeth as she lowered her head, failing to submerge a flush and smirk. "Sorry. You're just, um, really nice to look at… this close… wearing this," she admitted quietly.

His hand came to cup her jaw, gently tugging upward so her eyes met his, while the pad of his thumb stroked her bottom lip, pulling—forcing it out of her mouth. "What did I tell you about doing this to yourself, sweetheart," he rumbled, face inclining so close, his breaths heated her already burning skin, "This is just cruel."

He was so close, less than an inch away. It would be nothing to dissolve the gap and taste him, acquiesce to what every fiber of her being demanded of her. But, instead, she grinned devilishly, ghosting over his lips, "Crawl back on that board, Mellark."

Then, she pulled back quickly, the motion too abrupt for the arm he outstretched to capture her. She couldn't contain the giddy squeal, backing to just in front of the strobe and bringing the camera to her eye.

"You're a sadist," Peeta huffed with a very pointed pout, easily propping onto the surfboard and starting to maneuver back into a prone position.

"Oh, no. I want you on your knees."

One brow shot up high on his forehead. "I didn't sign up for that kind of modeling, Everdeen."

She lowered the camera so he could get a good view of her pursed lips. "I didn't say _hands_ and knees, sicko. Just knees. It makes the muscles in your thighs flex when you put all your weight on your knees."

With a quick run of a hand through his wayward curls, Peeta shifted onto his knees, hyperaware of the renewed flickering coming from the camera. The sound and the knowledge of who now held the device—who was scrutinizing him—made his pulse skyrocket. He thought it'd been uncomfortable when Cinna was taking the photographs. This was exponentially worse. He found it impossible to remove his eyes from a spot on the immaculate white floor beneath the prop. He didn't even realize when his arms came to cross over his chest.

"That doesn't hide anything, you know."

His questioning eyes shot up toward the crouching silhouette shrouded in light he knew was Katniss.

"When you cross your arms and lower your gaze like that," she elaborated in an amused voice. "On film, it only comes across as you being meek and oblivious about the power in those ridiculous arms of yours. It makes you that much more appealing. I think it's the opposite of what you're going for… just saying."

He couldn't help a corner of his lip hitching into a flattered half smile. "So, you find me appealing, do you?"

"Not blind," she answered flatly, but he could hear the underlying quake of bashfulness to her voice. "Cross your arms behind you… high and tight across your back."

He followed her directions, the smile unfaltering as she straightened to her feet, moving slowly while continuing to snap photo after photo. He followed the shadow of her form across the various strobe lights.

"Stop looking at the camera. Pretend I'm not here. Look natural."

His smile widened at her reproach, his retort coming in a breathy laugh, "Oh, yes," he could feel his unease melting away with each word she spoke, "because I get down on my knees, flexing my arms in sperm killing swim trunks routinely?"

She spurted and the flickering came to an abrupt halt while her laughter filled the high-ceiling corner. He could spend an eternity listening to that sound.

"Very funny, wiseass," she heaved after catching a breath. "Now, turn around, same position."

His eyes rounded with a painful jerk. "Excuse?"

Katniss shifted her weight to one foot, her left fist coming to rest on her hip. "You're showcasing a product. That suit has a front and a back, Peeta," she stated as if it were the most elemental concept.

He swallowed so shallowly, she could distinctly see the tendons in his neck contract and expand, his jaw clench. "This is the seventh outfit I've showcased for this line," he protested, attempting to keep the apprehension from leaking into his tenor. "And I modeled five other ones for my portfolio before that. Cinna never asked me to turn—"

"Well, he should have," she interrupted curtly, a bit of annoyance tingeing the statement. "A lot of swimwear has the logo on the back. We might have to do re-shoots on the other outfits if the designer requests them now. It would've been easier to get it done the first time around."

Hesitantly, Peeta maneuvered his body away from the lights, keeping on his knees, fighting the urge to rub his hands over his face. It'd only ruin the light makeup Octavia had applied to compensate for the intense lighting. Katniss's logic made perfect sense, but it still felt so much worse hearing that flickering from over his shoulder, removed from his controlled frame of sentience. It made the entire experience so much more invasive. He shut his eyes tight and focused on taking deep, measured breaths.

"Can you… um… Can you contract the muscles on this side, Peeta? Make them stand out. You're doing the arm crossing thing again and it's pulling everything to that side. We're… um… we're doing the back now, remember?"

He released a shaky breath, unclasping the arms that had unwittingly intertwined high on his chest. He allowed his knees to splay slightly further apart, curling his toes beneath each foot. Each hand came to rest high on his thighs, elbows bent behind him. He kept his eyes trained on the white wall until her harsh, hissed intake of breath caused his head to jerk in the direction of the sound.

"Jesus Christ, Peeta. Have you ever gotten a good look at your back? This isn't even fair. And I know this is crass, but you have an amazing butt."

He couldn't help it. She sounded so shocked and his nerves were so far beyond frayed. He started laughing. Really laughing. Uncontrollable guffaws that shook his entire body.

"You're messing up my shots, you know," Katniss attempted to chastise, but it fell flat through her poorly restrained giggling.

"Well, excuse me. It's not every day someone takes such pains to take my buttshot," he managed, trying to still his frame through his amusement. He was amazed the affect she had over him. One moment he was ready to hyperventilate and—three words from her—he was splitting his sides. He was infinitely grateful he'd have her there for this, at least at the beginning. Her presence was immeasurably cathartic.

"Okay, okay," Katniss breathed, resuming taking shots. "Now hook your thumbs into the waistband and pull it down just an inch over your hip."

Just like that, Peeta's humor stifled, his head flinched further backward for a moment as if trying to see her out of his periphery. In that brief moment, before he turned back to the white backdrop, his unspoken mortification was clear in the crease of his brows.

Still, his hand moved further up his thigh, thumbs edging into the waistband.

Just before he inched the fabric downward, a much smaller hand encased it. He felt the warmth of her skin and the tickle of her hair between his shoulder blades—obviously, she'd leaned her forehead high into his trapezium—moments before feeling an impossibly soft, moist kiss to his upper back. It sent an electrical current to every nerve in his body and he was powerless to keep his head from lolling backwards to rest on hers.

"You are so beautiful, Peeta," her heaved words ghosted over his quickly horripilating skin. "It's okay that you can't understand that concept right now, but I swear it's true. If you allow me, I want to help you understand it, though. You deserve to feel beautiful. I promise, you'll get to see every frame, get a say in everything that goes out to anyone who wants to use you like this. I just need you to trust me."

Peeta turned the hand she'd settled hers on, intertwining their fingers, and lifted it to his lips, a soft, lingering kiss ghosting over to the flushed skin.

"I do trust you."

He felt her smile against him once more, before pulling away quickly, delivering a very sharp smack to his bottom. He hissed at the sting, focusing on the pain to prevent his overstimulated synapses from delving too far into where he'd taken the blow.

_Naked old people. Naked old people. Naked old people._ God, she'd be the end of him.

"Okay, Mellark. Now dip that waistband and let's see if we can get this shoot done."

He snickered softly, doing as she commanded. "You're bossy when you do this, you realize."

"Meh. Takes a strong hand to corral you model types."

Unwittingly, a hand un-tucked from his solitary piece of clothing and listed through his ruined hair as he cleared his throat, trying to sound as confident as he could manage under the circumstance. "So, what are you doing after this? It is a Friday night. I know homework can wait. And don't tell me you have chaperon duties again."

"Nope," Katniss replied, halting mid shot. "After this, you're driving me home. We're ordering some Chinese, watching some bad DVR'ed TV… and getting in some more of that special 'practice' you're so good at."

Instantly, Peeta straightened, body swerving around with such force, he had to brace an arm behind him to keep his balance.

He was certain he'd sported the most idiotic, ear to ear grin, when he heard that final insidious, "click".


End file.
